Chapter 4 #2
I can’t send ice daggers soaring at them from my fingertips without giving myself away, but I can make it snow without it looking suspicious.
I glance up and smile: snow’s already in the air, thick and heavy in the gray clouds overhead.
I call to the flakes, willing them to fall, and soon the sky opens open, raining a thick blanket of white all around me.
I hear the men curse and I grin, breathing in deeply as the cold and bite in the air settle my beating heart the tiniest bit.
I keep running, clearing a small path before me through the snow as it continues to rain down all around, making the men slow.
I cut back to the left again, but slip when the earth dips sharply.
I scream as I fall, desperately trying to grasp a tree or dig my fingers into the ground to stop my descent.
Pain erupts in my shoulder when I strike a boulder hidden beneath the snow and I bite my lip as I continue to topple.
I finally come to a stop and roll onto my back, groaning and gasping in pain.
I feel blood trickling down my forehead and lip, and can barely move my shoulder.
I don’t think it’s dislocated, but it was a close call. Still hurts like fucking hells though.
One sleeve of my dress has been torn in half, and I see that I have a large, bloody gash on my forearm as well.
I wince as I gingerly poked at it, but then I glance up and see three of the men following my path down the hill and know I don’t have time to worry about my injuries. Survive first. Tend to wounds later.
“Ruddy fuck,” I moan as I make myself rise and continue onward, just to have the skirt of my dress snag on a branch a few seconds later.
“Oh, fuck this!” I form a dagger of ice and slice at the dress, hacking until my legs are able to move freely, sawing at the material until the bottom half of the skirt falls away.
It’s an uneven cut, angling down from my mid-thigh one side to just past my knee on the other, but it’ll do.
I start running again, faster now that I can actually fucking move, and will the snow to fall harder.
But it’s not enough to stop the men. They’re determined, I’ll give them that, but then again, I can only imagine the bounty on Tesni’s head.
I’d bet these men would be willing to do just about anything to catch me.
I turn to my right, sprinting along a wide creek, but my heart sinks and I skid to a stop when I find a solid rockface rising before me, a small waterfall feeding the creek from a crack within the stone about ten yards above my head.
The creek blocks my path on the left, and the earth rises in a sharp incline on my right.
I whirl to go back the way I’d come, but two men are there blocking my escape.
They toss back the hoods of their worn, patched cloaks as they stalk forward.
The stockier of the two smiles, taking in my bare thighs, the heaving of my chest, and my power surges inside my body, my palms burning with the cold.
I’ve seen that look.
I know that look
I will cut that look off of his fucking face if he tries.
I steel myself, preparing to fight as Tobias taught me all those years ago.
The thought of him fills my heart with bittersweet warmth.
He’s the only reason I survived my first few years after fleeing Lyanna.
He found me on the road a few months after I’d run, dirty and bleeding and nearly starved to death, and gave me shelter in his wagon.
He didn’t pry into who I was or how I’d come to be there, just let me ride beside him—or hide when we passed any other travelers, but especially soldiers.
He noticed, I know he did, but he never said a word.
He'd just smile and hand me a piece of bread or dried meat when I got up enough courage to crawl back up onto the seat again.
“I know you’ve got a story, little sparrow, but I’ll not push to hear it. You tell me when you’re ready. Until then, the only thing you need to know is that you are safe.”
I probably shouldn’t have believed him so easily, but the kindness in his chocolate eyes shone so brightly it was impossible not to trust in him.
“Sparrow?” I’d asked quietly a few minutes later, my voice meek and hoarse from disuse. I hadn’t spoken to another soul in weeks at that point, save screaming at those men to stop…
“You have a scrape just there,” he said, pointing to the torn shoulder of my dress, “looks a bit like a sparrow to me. So that’s what I’ll call you, shall I?”
I nodded and for a long time, I was simply Sparrow.
I wasn’t an orphan running for her life.
I wasn’t a Gifted whose sister broke her heart and betrayed her as easily as breathing.
I wasn’t a coinless beggar who had already had to fight for her life more times than any child of nearly thirteen should.
I was just Sparrow, the girl who liked to feed the horses sugar cubes and who sometimes had nightmares so terrible that they woke her, screaming and shaking, in the night.
He bought me clothes at the first town we came to, and, noticing how I worried I seemed to be about my hair, a hat to go with. I’d loved that damned hat with its floppy brim, the kind fishermen wore on boats in pictures I’d seen in our storybooks.
So, the two of us traveled together for years.
He became the father I never had, and I the daughter he’d always dreamed of.
His wife had died years back and when I asked if he ever thought to marry again, he told me that his heart had already been given away to his dear Mary—there was nothing left to offer anyone else.
We healed each other, I think, as much as two broken souls could be healed at least. He taught me so many things: how to live in the world; how to tend to horses; plants that could be eaten safely out in the woods and which ones to avoid; how to haggle for a good deal from the stalls at the markets; how to play quills like a fiend. Too many things to count.
But one of the most important was how to defend myself when I couldn’t use my Gift.
I briefly touch the scar on my shoulder, the one in the shape of a sparrow, and hear his words echo through my mind now: Anything can be made into a weapon.
Use your surroundings. I glance around and take up a sharp-edged rock from the ground, brandishing it at the men.
The taller of the two approaches first while the stockier one remains behind, muttering curses and wiping snow and mud from his trousers.
He must have fallen a few times in their pursuit.
The first man is reed-thin, with rust-colored hair, bushy eyebrows, and pock marks covering his long face. He doesn’t even pull a weapon as he nears, assuming I’m completely harmless. His mistake.
“Oh, fucking hells, what are you doing here, Blackheart?” the stocky man says, a note of…
something in his voice. Fear maybe? The tall man stops, turning back to his companion.
I follow his gaze and see that another man has joined us now, but based on the stocky man’s reaction, he’s not exactly welcome.
“The same reason as you, Ennis,” the new man—Blackheart—says, as if Ennis is a fool.
“But…but you came yourself?” I don’t know who this man is or why it’s a marvel that he’s come to collect a bounty himself, but I make a note to stay away from him at all costs.
He’s tall, almost seven feet if I had to guess, absolutely towering over Ennis.
He’s broad shouldered and looks as if he could fling Ennis across this creek with the tiniest bit of effort.
His black hair is windswept, his beard and mustache a bit unkempt as if he hasn’t trimmed them in at least a week, and ferocity seems to radiate from him in cold, dark pulses.
A black fur cloak is draped over his shoulders, a silver broach pinning it in place, and he rests a hand casually on the hilt of a massive sword at his hip.
“A prize this big? Of course I came to collect it myself.” His voice is low and smooth, sounding nonchalant but there’s a fierce coldness beneath the surface. Velvet over steel.
I swallow hard and take a small step towards the creek while the men are distracted, wondering if I can possibly make it across.
Though he doesn’t shift his gaze in my direction or change his position at all, I somehow know without a doubt that Blackheart has clocked the small movement.
I freeze again, instincts flaring and telling me that running isn’t an option now.
No, this man is not one to run from. He is a predator made for the chase, one who would enjoy it. I wouldn’t stand a chance.
Ennis looks to the tall man, who gives him a meaningful nod. Ennis takes a deep breath, as if steadying himself, and says, “Well, she’s ours.”
“I’m afraid not,” Blackheart replies with an arrogant, amused smile.
“She belongs to him now.” The way Blackheart says him, and the way Ennis and the tall man both pale, I know in my heart that he’s talking about King Dorian.
Ice that has absolutely nothing to do with my Gift fills my veins.
Of course, I knew deep down that there was a possibility that he would be one of the people after Tesni once word spread to the Hunters, but I guess I’d just hoped that he wouldn’t be the one to find me.
Ennis swallows hard but then steels himself and pushes his shoulders back, trying desperately to come even close to reaching Blackheart’s height. He fails miserably and in any other situation, I’d probably even laugh at the sight.
“I don’t care who you work for, Blackheart. We made the plan to attack the carriage. We found her out here. She’s ours.”
Blackheart smiles again, but there’s a cold, sharp edge to it. This man is dangerous, of that much I’m absolutely certain.